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Before that, however, I thought hopefully that perhaps by the next morning I would be able to understand what had happened. I doubted Vittorio would be any more willing to explain than usual, which is to say not at all, but perhaps he would be willing to let me ask questions. However, I haven't seen him again, not a single day since that night. He didn't eat breakfast at home or cross my path in the hallways. He didn't text me, make a call or leave me any messages. And instead of this causing me the relief that any sane person would feel after starring in the scene of our last meeting, the only feeling in my chest is the emptiness in a space that, until then, I hadn't realized had been filled by the Don.
“Maybe you should take advantage of thevendemmiato ask him to finally end your agony,” Rafaella suggests, thrown onto one of the armchairs in the library, while, standing in front of the windows, I look at the landscape beyond. The colorful ribbons in the village already pulling my gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“During thevendemmia, it is tradition for the Don to grant favors. Who knows, if you ask nicely, he might not fulfill your greatest desire?”
“And what desire would that be?”
“Let him take you to bed.”
“How absurd, Rafaella!” I protest, but my voice doesn't have the decency to sound as outraged as I don't feel.
I close my eyes, letting out a deep exhale as all the moments I've collected over the past few weeks play in my mind like a well-edited movie that plays only the highlights. Vittorio's touches, every time he got too close, his smell, the thousands of times I thought he would let me taste his mouth and, in the next instant, he would move away. I've kissed before, but until that dance night, I'd never wanted to discover what someone tasted like.
The man has me completely in his hands and doesn't care about it at all. Nothing. I am nothing to him, even though he is the only thing my body craves.
I was in his arms, and I just don't remember how it happened. I don't remember the feeling or the smell of his body. I don't remember anything and there hasn't been a single night since I woke up in my bed that it wasn't my legs that carried me to it that I didn't regret it.
That was another strange moment, actually. Opening my eyes and feeling the softness of the mattress beneath my weight was a completely unexpected sensation, just no more so than the awareness of who had put me there.
Every inch of my skin tingled, and I spent several minutes lying in bed, wondering what parts of it had touched Vittorio's, wondering what he was wearing, whether the suit or something else, whether some lucky inch of me had been awake enough to hold the memory my mind would never have.
It was long, very long minutes before I suddenly sat up, startled by the realization of what I was doing. I was lying in bed, for hours while I slept and then for a long time after I woke up. I was lying in bed because he put me there.
Vittorio saw my pile of sheets on the floor and chose to lay me down on the mattress anyway. And the knowledge of hisdesire was like a silent and necessary permission for me to be selfish, because the black box in my chest didn't vibrate, and that morning, after the realization hit me with the force of a storm, I laid down on my back again and went back to sleep in bed.
I let out a long sigh, feeling my desires, doubts and certainties spiral in my stomach, looking for a way out of my body and finding none. Sex. I want to have sex. And the complete impossibility of it brings me to the brink of crying. It's absurd! Who cries because they are condemned to die a virgin?
“Um... Then okay... I was just saying.” Rafa shrugs, having fun.
“Does the underboss also grant favors during thevendemmia, Rafaella?” I ask, and my friend's eyes narrow at me.
Contrary to what she thought would happen, the passage of time did not make Tizziano's harassment lighter or non-existent, and it seems to me that, in the end, Rafa was not as immune to his smirk and muscular body as she would have liked. The problem is the rest.
“Ha, ha! Very funny, Gabriella.”
“It's not as fun when it's with you, right?” Like a child, she sticks her tongue out at me. I laugh and leave the windows, moving closer. “Come on! Tell me again about thevendemmia!” I ask, desperate to occupy my head with something other than Vittorio Cataneo.
“Again?” She whimpers, and I plop down next to her, practically on top of her, in the armchair big enough for both of us to fit.
“Again, go!” Rafaella snorts and rolls her eyes. “You still haven't told me everything, I didn't know about the favors thing, for example. Tell me about them.” She looks at me with a cynicalsmile. “The real ones, Rafaella! Not the crazy ones your head is making up!”
I've spent the last few days asking her for details about the Harvest Festival. In the absence of more exciting things to think about,Vendemmiaand its meaning have become something of an obsession. I’ve turned Rafaella’s life hell, I read every book I found and managed to understand about it, and I even risked some questions for Luigia.
After weeks since the start of removing the grapes from the vines, today is finally the last day and it is tradition that, at the end of the work, there is a party to celebrate this. The celebration lasts all night and doesn't end until the sun shows its first signs at dawn.
According to Rafaella, it is the best festival throughout the year, because it not only celebrates the end of the harvest, but also sows prosperity. It is a time of fraternization between the workers who come to the Cantina just to work on the harvest and those who live on the property all year round.
It is also a farewell, because those who will not work on the production of Santo Monte wines this week are starting to return to their homes.
“All right, let's talk about favors, then.”
***
Nothing I imagined compares to reality.
If I had to explainvendemmiawith something I know, it would be with a Saint John’s festival and, even so, I would be very far from what the Harvest Festival actually is.
